


could it be anybody

by peridium



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bros helping bros, Dean in Denial, M/M, Oral Sex, Season/Series 11, bro jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-30 10:19:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5160131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peridium/pseuds/peridium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas clears his throat, a polite little <i>ahem</i>.</p><p>“I was, uh, wondering,” Dean says, “if maybe you wanted a blow job.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	could it be anybody

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xylodemon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/gifts).



> A very VERY happy belated birthday to the lovely Julie, whose kindness and talent have brightened fandom for me immeasurably. ♥
> 
> This fic is literally in my files as "BRO JOB.doc," so that should give you a general idea of its contents. Dean offers to give Cas a blow job... you know, in a friendly way. As buddies. Just to cheer him up. He might be a little bit in denial. Somewhere around 11.04/11.05, I imagine.
> 
> The title is obviously from "With A Little Help From My Friends" by The Beatles. I'm [here](http://sunbeamdean.tumblr.com) on Tumblr.

It’s just that Cas has been so damn _bummed_ lately in the wake of the attack dog spell. Skulking through the winding halls of the bunker with bags under his eyes, nose buried in either a book or his own cell phone. Dean gets it, sort of. Yeah, things are weird. Not like he’s a ray of sunshine himself, but. Well.

But Cas is sticking around. And that’s awesome—it’s fan-friggin’-tastic—but Dean’s not used to actually dealing with Cas’ moods. Cas’ shoulders hunched, the frisson of awkward tension that distorts the air between them when they make eye contact. Maybe they were better at being two ships in the night as far as buddies go. Couple of awkward phone calls, some text messages with too many emoticons, weird emotionally charged friendship that picked up every now and then. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.

Seeing Cas squint at himself in the bathroom mirror, bumping shoulders while Dean reaches for the shaving cream, though? The close quarters, the tangibility of Cas’ discomfort and latent unhappiness, they make Dean want to do something about it.

Cas might be an angel again, but he’s slumming it like a human. The guy deserves some good stuff in his life.

“Is that, uh, actually fun for you?” Dean clears his throat and passes the butter.

Cas gives him an implacable kind of stare across the kitchen table. He tugs one of his earbuds out of his ear and cocks his head, staring at Dean without any pause in the motions of his hands as he butters his toast. He figured out the Netflix app so fast that Dean’s been left weirdly jealous, like, why is _he_ the guy who can’t work his smart phone when Cas is literally exponentially older than he is? Sam must’ve helped him instead of just laughing the way he does when Dean asks him stuff.

“Excuse me?” Cas says politely.

Dean thumps his fist against his own chest. “That show. You ever planning to come back to the real world?”

“ _Orange is the New Black_ has won multiple Emmy awards,” Cas says.

Dean groans and bolts down more of his coffee.

 

“Do you think Cas has a birthday?”

Sam doesn’t even miss a beat. His forehead scrunches, then he says, “I guess, technically? Like, he was created on a day. But that day was long before calendars came into play.”

Dean sighs, tossing the off-brand keg of cereal into their shopping cart. He checks his phone real quick, but there’s nothing from Cas, who’s supposed to be researching the Darkness back at the bunker. Dean suspects he’s marathoning _Daredevil_ instead.

“Why d’you ask? About Cas?” Sam adds a couple minutes later while they’re idling in the checkout line.

Cagey, Dean shrugs one shoulder. “Sucks to have no birthday, right? Never get any presents.”

“Yeah,” Sam says with a rueful chuckle, “like we always had such awesome birthdays.”

The thing is, Dean was picturing a normal-person birthday party for Cas. Dumb hats, layers of shitty grocery store cake, regular presents. Probably nerdy books of lore and farmer’s market honey for the birthday boy.

It’s stupid, imagining Cas going full human like that. He’s always been here today, gone tomorrow. Hell, they could go back to the bunker with their arms full of groceries and find Cas gone again, important angel business, so sorry, catch you in a couple weeks or months or lifetimes.

Cas is still there when they come home. He looks tired, the blanket he hasn’t given back slipping off one shoulder, and he smiles at Dean. It makes the lines around his eyes deepen and his eyes brighten, and it makes Dean want to do something nice for him all over again.

 

He’s thinking about it in the shower the next morning, suds collecting around his feet before the drain sucks them down. What it was that cheered him up before he caught the one-way express to Hell and _cheering up_ turned into _chugging some beers and making it through the night_.

Good nights on the town, a really productive round of hustling pool, great sex. Hell, a fantastic blow job from a girl who really knew her way around a dick used to be enough to put a spring in his step for days.

Dean shakes water out of his eyes and lets the fragments of earlier memories go with the droplets. Himself on his knees, Sammy at Stanford and his dad halfway across the country. All the stupid shit he got up to in truck stop bathrooms. Those dudes seemed pretty damn happy afterward, too.

Some of them were even kind about it. He always liked it when they touched his face.

Dean doesn’t do that anymore. He got it out of his system and threw himself back into the job and the life. Still.

Still, he wants to do Cas a solid. Put some of the color back in Cas’ cheeks. Before they get ripped apart again, whenever that happens.

 

“Say that again,” Cas says.

Dean watches the toe of his own boot tap nervously against the library floor. It’s not like Cas didn’t _hear_ him. Angel, after all. Super-hearing.

Cas clears his throat, a polite little _ahem_.

“I was, uh, wondering,” Dean says, “if maybe you wanted a blow job.”

He’d turned over the phrasing in his head a couple dozen times. Everything seemed too intimate, too much like Dean was really involved on an uncomfortably personal level. _You want me to blow you?_ or _You want me to suck you off?_ both put Dean himself front and center when this insane endeavor is supposed to be about Cas.

Cas worries his lower lip with his teeth. He’s down to shirtsleeves, the knot of his tie loose and his socks sliding against the hardwood floor. “You want,” he says, slow and even, “to put my penis in your mouth.”

“No, I.” Dean stops, gritting his teeth in hopes of willing away the flush rising to his cheeks. “I’m asking if you want a BJ, not saying I want to—dude, just answer the question.”

“Why?”

The question’s so stark, so freaking point blank, that Dean blinks, then blinks again. “Because it’ll feel good,” he says, “and I know you feel crappy, so I figured you might want something that feels good.”

Cas’ expression goes all soft around the edges. He taps the screen with his thumb, then tucks his phone into the back pocket of his slacks without looking away from Dean. “Hamburgers no longer suffice?”

Dean laughs under his breath, some of the tension leaving with his next exhalation. “Tried that,” he says. It’s true—he pulled out all the stops a couple nights ago, homemade patties and everything. Perked Cas up for about twelve hours, then wore off.

“I’m recovering, Dean,” Cas says. “I’ll be fine with time.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s the party line around here.” Dean shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans. “Not like I’m gonna force it on you, man, I just, I dunno. Way to a man’s heart, right?”

A fleeting smile tugs at the corner of Cas’ mouth. “I’m not a man, but okay.”

The air between them goes dead for a second while Dean tries to figure out what Cas is saying. His mouth is dry and he’s stupidly nervous, which is pathetic. Okay, this ain’t the manliest thing he’s ever offered to do, but it’s like an in the trenches kind of deal, right? No other choice, you turn to your buddies when your own hand doesn’t do the trick?

Not that Dean knows much about Cas’ relationship with his own hand.

“Okay,” Cas says again, “yes. I accept. If it’s still on the table.”

 _Oh my god, I’m gonna suck Cas’ dick_. Dean bites back those words before they actually get out of his throat, thank fuck. “Awesome,” he says instead, and his voice doesn’t even crack.

Cas gives him another smile, pleasant and everyday. There’s a tuft of hair curling right around his earlobe. “Just let me finish this episode of _The Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt._ ”

Now Dean only has twenty-some minutes to remember how this is done. Why couldn’t it have been a real long episode of _House of Cards_?

 

Socks and boxers. That’s all Cas is still wearing and Dean’s not looking, not noticing the tight pink peaks of his nipples or the shifting muscles in his shoulders as he settles onto the mattress. They’re in one of the bunker spare rooms, the one Cas has been using for his Netflix marathons. Dean thought about using his own room—familiar surroundings and all—but he’s already wary about how awkward this is gonna be after it’s over.

Dean Winchester doesn’t back down. That’s about all that’s keeping him from turning tail and bolting from the expectant tilt of Cas’ head. Cas needs a shave, he notes.

“Dean,” Cas prompts. He sounds a little hesitant, like he’s not sure this is a good idea either.

“Yeah.” Dean licks his lips. It’s been a long damn time since he tasted dick, he’s just—getting back in the right mindset. Yeah.

“You don’t have to do this,” Cas says. His fingers fan out against his thighs. He huffs out a small laugh. “I’m still not sure why you offered in the first place.”

That makes Dean want to ask why Cas took him up on it—but he’s not so sure he wants to hear the answer. Boredom, curiosity, whatever, all of it would turn sour in his gut.

“No half-decent dude lets his buddy maybe get swallowed up by the Darkness without experiencing an awesome blow job first,” he says, flashing a grin. “Guaranteed puppy upper, too.”

Cas nods soberly. “Very charitable of you.”

Like a goddamn dweeb, Dean rolls his sleeves up. He sinks to his knees.

His own breathing, or maybe that’s Cas’, is harsh in his ears. There’s some searing heat, nerves and something else dark and intoxicating, gathering in the pit of his stomach, the space between his ribs.

Cas is warm. That’s the first thing Dean notices: Cas’ skin is so warm, alive, under his palms. Maybe it’s a feature of having his grace back, but Dean kinda thinks that’s just Cas, burning hot with purpose and rebellion. He wets his lips with his tongue again, flexes his fingers against Cas’ knees, and reaches up to pull Cas’ boxers down with both hands, fingers hooked through the plain white waistband.

Cas helps, lifting his hips, and their hands brush for a second. It’s—weird. They don’t touch like this. It’s clasped shoulders and friendly jostles.

Should’ve put on music, but there’s only Dean’s heart thrumming at all his pulse points. Cas exhales, a soft _whoosh_ that ruffles Dean’s hair. That’s how damn close they are.

Cas’ boxers pool at his ankles, around his stupid utilitarian socks. Dean leans in, calling on all his reserves of stubbornness to just not fucking overthink this. Cas isn’t hard, and so Dean’s nose bumps soft skin, dark curls. He drags in a breath, the raw, sweet, sweaty smell of Cas where no one’s ever really touched him right, been gentle with him.

Jesus. Cas has been through so much shit. He earned this.

“Come on.” Dean squeezes Cas’ thighs, coaxing them further apart.

Cas goes easy, all of him relaxing with a quiet sigh. His dick is stirring, thickening and flushing pink under nothing more than the whisper of Dean’s breath. Makes sense, sorta—he’s so inexperienced, he’s gotta be sensitive as hell. Made bolder with that thought, Dean slackens his jaw and slides Cas’ half-erection into his mouth, lips wet and ready.

“ _Oh_ ,” Cas says above him, tremulous, so much higher-pitched than his regular peaty-whiskey rumble of a voice.

God. Fuck. Dean can feel Cas getting harder right there in his mouth, longer and heavier, stretching the corners of Dean’s lips. Sympathetic arousal jolts through his own system, coiling between his legs.

“Don’t stop there.”

Dean laughs at the back of his throat and Cas moans, shuddering so hard that Dean can feel it in his spinal cord. It’s a little satisfying to be poised like this, mouth full, Cas’ pending pleasure in his hands. His dick twitches again. It’s been a long time since he got laid.

Lingering shame aside, Dean knows how to do this. Used to be damn good at it. He shuts his eyes, curls his hands around the broadness of Cas’ hips, and swallows Cas further down.

“Ah—Dean. _Dean_.” Cas shivers like a spooked horse, cups a hand at the back of Dean’s neck. It’s sort of overly personal, but Dean’s not gonna stop him.

Not when Cas is leaking onto the back of Dean’s tongue, not when Dean’s pulling off to lap up the precome. Not with the slight give when Dean’s lips purse around the head of Cas’ dick, the sleek slide as he takes the whole length into his mouth again. He can’t deep-throat like he used to when this stuff was a game and he played to win, and Cas is pretty big, but he can make a damn good showing. He can press sucking kisses all down the now-straining side of Cas’ erection, nuzzle at the base of it, curl his tongue against the velvet weight of Cas’ balls.

Yeah, Dean’s still got it.

“Dean,” Cas breathes again. His fingers slide up and up, ruffling the hair at the back of Dean’s head. Goosebumps ripple all down Dean’s arms and sides. “Please don’t stop.”

“Hey.” Dean bites the word into the tender inside of Cas’ thigh, the pale skin and dark hair. “Don’t worry, man, I got you.”

Cas whimpers, and the sound echoes somehow. Maybe it’s Dean, whose hands are shaking anew as he takes Cas as deep as he can. He should hate the way he almost gags when Cas hits the back of his throat, but fuck him, he doesn’t. He doesn’t hate it so much that he does it again. And again.

There’s a rhythm to doing this, and Dean’s remembering it. How to hollow his cheeks, how to fit his fist around the spit-slick base of Cas’ dick that he can’t fit in his mouth. That’s all familiar enough, the mechanical ease of giving pleasure. Hell, he takes pride in being good at this shit.

It’d be so fucking easy to tune out if Cas would stop _touching_ him. The hand at his neck has moved to his temple, and then there’s the way Cas’ legs have wrapped around his midsection, the way his stocking feet are twitching against Dean’s sides and back. You’d think an angel of the Lord would have more composure, but maybe first blow jobs are the same for anyone, and Cas keeps panting, pushing his fingers through Dean’s hair. Every time Dean hums under his breath, Cas’ hips buck up, not enough to choke but enough to remind Dean that he’s doing this to a person, a real live person. Not just a person, fuck, _Cas_.

He wants to know what Cas’ face looks like right now. Are his eyes closed? Are his lips parted? Is the hollow of his throat shining with sweat?

That’s when Dean surprises himself with a moan, low and visceral, clawed out of his chest and up through his throat where he’s sinking down over Cas’ dick one more time.

Cas mirrors him, a low whine, his fingernails digging into Dean’s neck just above the collar of his shirt. “I,” he says, ragged, “had no idea it would feel this good.”

Dean’s only fucking human. He moans again before he can stop himself and shoves a hand down the front of his jeans, the button popping free with the force of his movement.

Holy shit, he’s harder than he thought. He’s practically busting out of his boxer-briefs, and his dick throbs hard when he squeezes it, rough and inexpert in contrast with the care he’s been giving Cas. Dean rocks into his own hand, knows he’s getting sloppier where he’s mouthing at the slit of Cas’ dick, can’t manage to care when he’s this close this embarrassingly fast.

“Dean.” One more time, and now Cas sounds practically desperate. “Dean, are you touching yourself?”

Dean almost lies. He’s about to lean back on his heels and say no, but then there’s Cas’ hand in his hair again, tugging, the sparking bright pleasure he doesn’t have the energy to ignore. “Yeah,” he says, or maybe sobs, the friction of his own palm so, _so_ good.

“Oh,” Cas says, sounding dazed, and then he makes a small hitching sound, and then he says, “I think—I think I’m about to—”

Cas doesn’t get a chance to finish the sentence, because Dean rises up and pins him to the bed with hands at his hips. He wants everything, every bitter human drop of Cas’ orgasm, and he gets it, thick and hot spilling down his throat. There’s the edge of the bed, and Dean’s not proud, but he grinds against it with his pants half-undone once, twice, and he’s done, trembling through it as he comes before Cas is even finished.

It’s a goddamn mess. Dean meant to be a professional, meant to smile and wipe his mouth and saunter off knowing Cas was taken care of.

Instead he’s gulping in these huge deep breaths while Cas pets his hair, licking the remnants of his best buddy’s come off the swell of his own lower lip.

“Thank you,” Cas murmurs, his thumb tracing the outside shape of Dean’s ear. “You were right.”

“Mmph?” Dean can’t look, can’t face this head-on. Can’t swallow—ha fucking ha—the reality that he’d come in his pants from sucking a dick. A really nice dick, a gorgeous dick attached to a dude he cares about a whole lot, but—

“That did cheer me up.” Cas chuckles. It’s a good, rich sound.

Dean’s an idiot. A damn moron who thinks with his downstairs brain. He’s coming to terms with that as he crawls up the bed so he’s poised over Cas, thinking _I’m so, so fucking stupid_ as he drops his forehead to rest against Cas’ and closes his eyes.

“Hi,” Cas adds, softer, fonder.

“I just,” Dean says. “I just wanted to give you something nice with no strings attached, y’know?”

“Yeah,” Cas says, “I know.” A thoughtful pause hovers between them and then he adds, his knuckles touching Dean’s half-bare belly, “It’s only that I don’t mind being attached to you.”

Dean laughs, so tired. “Sorry, man.” He’s not totally positive what he’s apologizing for, but he figures Cas’ll get it.

Reassuringly, Cas does. “I’m not,” he says.

Dean breathes out, tasting Cas. “Okay. Me neither.”

Cas smiles, and Dean can feel it against his cheek. “Okay.”


End file.
